


Shield-Maiden

by avanti_90



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Comment Fic, Gen, Triple Drabble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-06 22:26:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5433056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avanti_90/pseuds/avanti_90
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The night the war-host of the Rohirrim rides for Gondor, Éowyn climbs the steps to her chambers alone, with a tankard of mead in her hand. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shield-Maiden

The night the war-host of the Rohirrim rides for Gondor, Éowyn climbs the steps to her chambers alone, with a tankard of mead in her hand. She bolts the door behind her and pulls the curtains closed, and there, by the light of a single candle, she removes her skirts and dons the rider's garb, the armor and the helm. She fastens at her belt the sharpened sword, slings the shield over her shoulder, and looks at herself in the cracked mirror.

It is no warrior, no noble hero that gazes back at her; it is merely the frightened gray eyes of a trembling girl, a shieldmaiden only in name, one who has never truly known war, never tested her blade against an enemy. One who goes to war now, only to flee her duty.

Her duty, she is told, is here; to remain behind while the darkness rises, and take no part in confronting it. Éowyn looks into the mirror at this armored, trembling girl, and she sees herself obeying, as she has done so many times before; she sees herself growing old and weak and weary, fleeing from the onslaught of the Enemy, never facing her fears, until those fears become part of her blood and bone, until she forgets how to stand and how to fight, and she sees the darkness claim its victory over her soul.

 _Nay,_ she thinks; _nay, that is a fate worse than death._ Let this be her end, if it must be so; let her body lie trampled into the mud of some distant battlefield, but let it be a worthy end.

She drains the mead in one long, slow gulp, and warmth fills her from head to toe, burning away all her fears. _We drink, and ride to the world's ending._


End file.
